


Grounded

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-02
Updated: 2012-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-28 18:05:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fiasco that was The Wrong War, Horatio feels like he has failed everyone. Archie helps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grounded

**Author's Note:**

> Set after _The Frogs and Lobsters_.  
>  Sequel to [Breathless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/306220)

Their first kiss was the softest, sweetest one Horatio had ever shared with another human being. Soft, pliant lips parted under his, and Horatio knew enough to sweep his own tongue across them, engulfed in a lovely scent. Amidst the madness that raged around them, this was safe haven, his salvation.

He told himself firmly that it was so, but before he could get lost in it, the kiss was over. Mariette pulled back and gazed up at him with large, soulful eyes, her hand wrapped around his neck, pulling him in, weighing him down. His arms lay around her waist; she was so small and skinny, almost like a boy, and Horatio swallowed; his honour dictated clearly what to do. Telling her he’d come back to take her away with him was the only honourable solution, Horatio knew. And so he offered, and she accepted.

She died, by the hands her own people, in his arms, and with her died something of Horatio. Had his head not been full of fog and his heart full of despair, he would have wept bitter tears for the death of youth and innocence.

And then, as he succumbed to the cacophony in his head, a cacophony more powerful than the fire of guns, the beating of drums and the shouting of men, there was a voice, low and insistent in his ear, and even though there were strong arms wrapped around him, it was on the strength of that voice and of those words that Horatio stumbled to his feet and tore across the bridge into a new life, his fingers dug into the lifeline that was Archie.

~*~

Archie doesn’t ask him what happened; Archie never once asks him what happened. It never registers with Horatio, not until he realises something else is amiss: the Earl of Edrington has not once made a remark, and Horatio feels his stomach sink. He cannot get cross with the Earl; but he can get cross with Archie.

It doesn’t help. Archie doesn’t give the impression that he so much as notices Horatio’s gloomy silence and stormy gaze. As if bent on infuriating Horatio, he develops a rapport with Edrington, and on the voyage back across the Channel both men are spotted more than once sharing a glass of wine and anecdotes about life in London. Even if he wanted to – and he most decisively does not want to - Horatio would not have been able to join in. His family, meagrely comprised of his father and of himself, does not belong to the ton, he has never spent a season in the city, and he dislikes the way Archie talks about “the country” with Edrington, as though it isn’t a real place but a mirage created to keep families of consequence amused between the seasons.

The Major and his regiment disembark and disappear from Horatio’s life, and Horatio stands on the pier, his back against the gale that sends the folds of his heavy cloak flapping around his skinny figure like daemonic wings. It is most fitting, he thinks, his soul bleak and black. His heart brims over with resentment. Returning from a suicide mission, from a war that was as futile as it was wrong, the words Archie spoke to him swim in frenzied circles inside his head: _“A fine thing to die in someone else’s war, die in someone else’s war, someone else’s war...”_. He crossed the Channel like Orpheus did the River Styx, and like Orpheus, he has lost his Eurydice just as salvation was within reach.

It doesn’t escape him that Archie pays parting pleasantries to his Lordship, his face alight with laughter. Green-eyed and blistering, envy, that most pungent of all deadly sins, rises its ugly head within his breast. Horatio’s blunt nails bore deep into the flesh of his palms. As an officer in His Majesty’s Navy, it isn’t his place to question his orders. Horatio hates himself for every bitter thought that sends his mind a-whirl. He wishes he knew how to make it stop.

Archie swirls around and strides towards him. “This night belongs to us, Horatio!” he exclaims. “How would you like to spend it?”

Horatio’s back stiffens. “What do you mean, Mr Kennedy?”

Archie grins. “Have you forgotten? The Captain granted us shore leave if the disembarkation proceeds smoothly and is finished before nightfall. I assumed this was the reason why you hurried the men so.”

“I would like to think, Mr Kennedy, that my conduct as an officer has been beyond approach and that I don’t have to be lured with the promise of shore leave to perform my duties.”

Archie stares at him for two or three second before snorting with laughter. “Come with me,” he says, tugging at Horatio’s sleeve. “I know exactly what you need.”

~*~

They are seated, Horatio doesn’t fail to notice, in the same inn where they stayed together after Clayton’s death, all those years ago. Archie purchased a tankard of wine from the surly publican, who eyed the young officer as though gauging how much trouble he would possibly cause, and is now pushing through the throng back to their table.

“This was hard-earned!” he says, flopping down onto the bench by Horatio and pushing the tankard towards him. “Do appreciate my toils, please.” His smile is radiant.

“How would you have me drink it, then?” Horatio asks, not returning Archie’s smile.

“Not drink.” Archie pours Horatio a mugful, and then himself. “Relish.”

Horatio swallows a mouthful; it leaves a bitter taste on his tongue, but he knows it will get better the more he drinks. He hopes he will know when to stop.

“Will you tell me now?” After the second or third drink, Archie’s voice is soft yet insistent.

“Tell you what?”

“Why you’ve been going out of your way to steer clear of me,” Archie says, his head cocked to one side, his blue gaze intent.

Horatio doesn’t speak. Two souls are dwelling in his breast. The one that has learned to love Archie as a friend and as a brother urges him desperately to share his innermost feelings with Archie; the other one, the one that is a bubbling cauldron of pitch, simmers and spits up evil little thoughts that prick at Horatio’s mind. Both come together in an infernal union.

“You never asked me who she was, what happened to me in France,” Horatio snaps, hurt and sullen, his hand clenched around his mug.

Archie looks at him, _really_ looks at him, his lips parted ever so slightly. “You never asked me what happened to me in France, either,” he says in one breath, and the walls around Horatio’s heart shatter.

“Archie...” he says, and then he doesn’t say anything for a while.

Archie is still and silent, as well, whilst the daemons of guilt and doubt gnaw their way out of Horatio’s chest. “I am sorry,” he offers, and he is. Really, truly sorry. Never, he concludes mournfully, will he become a good officer if he loses sight of what truly counts. He has been blindsided, has focused solely on the mission, has seen how he failed his King and Country in more ways than one, and through all this has never seen how he has failed his friend. “You never said, never complained-“

Archie shrugs. “What good would that do? We had our orders, we followed them. Our own private concerns are immaterial in the eyes of the Admiralty when there is a war to be won.” He wrinkles his nose – a familiar, oddly comforting expression that makes Horatio smile.

“I think I was in love with her,” he volunteers, his fingers picking at the splinters poking out here and there out of the worn wood of the table.

“Of course you were,” Archie agrees cheerfully. “She was very pretty, and she had a certain je ne sais quoi, I’m sure. Edrington said she did, and he’s got a good eye for such things.”

Horatio sits up stiffly. “You talked with his Lordship about... about me?”

“What did you expect?” Archie taps the heel of his hand against the table. “We worried about you.”

“You did?”

“Yes, Horatio, I did,” Archie says quietly. “Even the unholy Hornblower luck must run out one day. That day, on the bridge, I feared it might be that day.”

Horatio shakes his head. “Not as long as you’re there to save me, Archie,” he said. “I told you I needed you, remember?”

“So you did.” Archie’s eyes light up again, brilliantly blue against the pallor of his face. He looks as tired as Horatio feels, his features thrown into sharp relief by the dark shadows beneath the arch of his cheekbones. “Now we’re even.”

“This is hardly a race, Mr Kennedy,” Horatio says, and he longs to touch Archie’s hand in reassurance.

“The less reason for me to lose, Mr Hornblower,” Archie says, somewhat nonsensically, but Horatio doesn’t mind. They have drunk the wine, and liquid warmth courses through his veins. At some point during their conversation, the daemons have flapped away, even though Horatio feels vestiges of guilt lingering still. He is cushioned against them by a very comfortable drunkenness, however, and by companionship. It strikes him, not for the first time, that Archie truly is his friend, _wants_ to be his friend, and gratitude outweighs self-doubt. He wishes to show Archie his gratitude and racks his brain for an inspiration, but there is nothing, and finally, he settles for a simple touch; he reaches out and squeezes Archie’s hand that is resting between them on the bench.

Archie’s hand twitches, but he doesn’t pull it back. Once again, Horatio is treated to a long, intent look, one that, he is sure, is intended to read his mind. “I don’t think you should have any more wine tonight, Mr Hornblower,” he says, and his words are strung together rather shakily. Horatio shakes his head and then, fearing that Archie might take the gesture for contradiction, nods just as vigorously. Archie bursts out laughing. “It is a blessing for the Admiralty and the Crown that you are not quite so undecided in other areas, Lieutenant Hornblower,” he teases. “Perhaps we had better leave this den of inebriation and seek to make berth in quieter quarters.”

Horatio is still holding Archie’s hand as he stands up, and Archie jerks his hand back as though scalded, before anybody around them can see. They stagger through the crowd that, in the last one or two hours, has become more numerous and rather more lively, and here, amidst the undulating wave of bodies, they are merely two drunken sailors, and no-one pays them any heed. Horatio, who elbows his way through the throng first, reaches back blindly and brushes his fingertips against Archie’s. It is the faintest of connections, easy to break, and yet as unbreakable as the one between a magnet and an iron horseshoe. Horatio can feel the current of warmth travel from his finger all the way up his arm, erupting in sparkles that alternate between heat and cold so that his skin is burning and yet is covered in goose bumps at the same time. His step, usually so ungainly and graceless, doesn’t falter, and even when he comes face to face with a friendly brawl, he stands his ground, and the men part to make way.

The stairs to their room are on the outside, and they spill out into the moonlit yard. It is barely darker than the inside of the inn, but the light here carries a different quality; it is whiter, sharper, and Horatio thinks that he can see some things more clearly that were hidden in a fog before.

The moon accompanies them into their room, peering in through the window, and when Archie moves to light the oil lamp, Horatio stops him with a hand on his arm. Archie turns on his heel and looks at Horatio, earnestly.

Horatio swallows. “This is lunacy,” he says, and it is. Moonsickness has them in her grip. Archie hums a non-committal sound in the back of his throat. They don’t speak, and Horatio takes his time letting his eyes adjust to their chiaroscuro surroundings.

“Perhaps it is; but then let us, for once, succour this lunacy, Horatio,” says Archie. He looks calm, calmer than Horatio feels, but Horatio can see the moonlit side of his face, watches the clench of his jaw, the twitch in the corner of his mouth, and he reaches out a hand and brushes Archie’s hair away from his brow to check whether the pulse in his temple matches the rapid beat of Horatio’s own heart.

If Archie were a girl, Horatio would now kiss him. But Archie is not a girl, he most decisively is not, and Horatio is very much aware of this; he has, he admits to himself, for this is an hour of honesty and frankness, held the evidence of Archie’s non-girlhood in his own hand. He blushes at the memory, one that he has not permitted to surface very often, but it doesn’t matter, because the darkness around him swallows his shame. Archie is still looking at him as though waiting for something and Horatio is quite sure, almost _completely_ sure, that that something is a kiss. He is not sure, however, whether men are supposed to kiss each other, or whether this is the one thing one reserves for women, even if, in times of need, one’s body might seek release by another man’s hand.

But this is not just another man; this is Archie, Horatio’s dearest friend, who deserves better than shamefaced rutting in a dark corner, and so Horatio quickly calculates the risk and gambles all that he has on a kiss. He takes a deep breath and a step forward and leans in. Alea iacta est.

Archie does not jerk away or punch him. He closes his eyes, Horatio can tell it by the way his lashes flutter against his cheeks, and Horatio tilts his head to align them better, to feel more of Archie’s mouth. For all that the room has started to spin around him, he stands quite steady, and he runs his hand down Archie’s arm and entwines his fingers with his. When he pulls back, the room is still spinning, and Horatio is ready to burst into flames in his uniform. He never lets go of Archie’s hand, he can’t, but he finds unbuttoning his coat one-handed an impossible task; his fumbling fingers slip off the buttons and his stock threatens to choke him.

Already, Archie’s fingers alight on the lapels of his jacket. “I think perhaps you’ll find me rather more adroit, Mr Hornblower,” Archie tries to keep his voice light, Horatio can tell, but it is rough and laden with... desire, thinks Horatio. Genuine, marrow-deep desire that does not render him clumsy, but rather lends a dexterity to his fingers that both astounds and delights Horatio.

There are many layers of fabric between them, and only part of them is disposed of before they fall onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs, and Horatio groans under Archie’s weight. Horatio is far from ignorant, he has been with his share of women. But nothing has prepared him for the feel of a man’s body against his own. Has he expected Archie to be small and yielding under his hands, he is sorely disappointed. Archie’s body is a solid presence against his own, Archie’s hands firm and determined, and Archie’s teeth, fastened to the base of his throat, are feral. Archie’s hips are pressing him down hard, harder. A woman’s soft hips and curves, Horatio realises, are there to cushion and soothe the pressure; a man is all muscles and bones, and the contact is raw, painful even. His belt buckle catches against Archie’s, and Horatio swears as the unyielding metal scrapes across his cock.

Archie raises his head and looks down Horatio’s body. He tugs at the belt. “Off, you think?” Horatio nods, and he presses two fingers under Archie’s chin, tips his head up and kisses him again, slowly, sloppily, opening his mouth too wide until their teeth click together. It is not right, not quite, _not yet_ , and Horatio’s mind whirls, because it _feels_ right, and for once he doesn’t care for the rules of God or Man.

Archie is out of his boots and trowsers in no time. He swats Horatio’s hands away that fumble shakily on his buttons. Horatio watches him, transfixed, and he lifts his hips obediently to allow Archie pull the garments down his legs. They’re off, off, off, and Archie is back beside him, and above him, and underneath him as they roll on the bed, desperate to feel each other’s skin and lust. When he comes to lie on top of Archie, Horatio traces the smooth jut of his hip bone with his fingers and leaves breathless kisses in the hollow of his throat.

Archie jerks his hips, his belly swelling against Horatio’s, his back arched; and Horatio, dizzy with lust, slips a hand under the small of Archie’s back, almost scalding himself on his burning skin. The desire to bury himself in that heat washes over him, drowning out everything else. He pushes blindly, groaning into Archie’s neck, and his cock thrusts and thrusts until it lodges itself deep between Archie’s sweat-slick thighs.

Archie spreads his legs.

And Horatio, rocking against the cradle of Archie’s loins, suddenly knows what it is that men do to each other, and he suddenly knows –

“Oh, God!” he blurts out, incoherently. “Is that what it was, what Simpson did to you?”

Even though he has long known Archie is a strong man, he has not expected to be hit by such force as Archie jolts upright and rams his fists against Horatio’s chest so that Horatio goes flying across the bed. His head is spinning.

“Don’t you dare!”

Horatio raises himself from the crumpled heap in which he has come to rest, winded, dizzy and unhappy. Archie crouches across from him, his face frozen and his eyes overbright.

“I didn’t mean-“ Horatio’s breath is coming in stinging gasps and he swallows convulsively, once, twice, to keep the nausea down.

“Don’t you _dare_ compare yourself to him, you are _nothing_ like him.” Archie’s voice is rough as though every word is being ripped out of his throat and pains him, but his eyes are like steel.

“I didn’t-“ He doesn’t know what to do. Tears rise from the back of his nose to his eyes, scratching and bitter like bile, but he doesn’t cry. He stares at Archie and Archie stares back.

Just when it gets almost too much, when Horatio thinks he’s not able to bear it, Archie’s face twitches and unfreezes, he rubs his nose with the back of his hand and lowers his head, and his hair falls forward in a wave that obscures his face. Horatio’s insides melt, and he clambers on numb hands and knees towards Archie and folds his arms around his shoulders. He ignores the sound of protest, doesn’t care that he is crouched uncomfortably and that Archie’s body is rigid and sharp-angled against his. He simply holds still. Heartbeat by heartbeat, Archie relaxes, smooth muscles shifting beneath Horatio’s fingers, and when their bodies are all but boneless, they tumble down together, falling from shadows into light as they land on the moonlit sheets.

Neither says anything for a long while. Horatio’s skin sings, and he senses, from the ripples that run through Archie, that his desire, too, is building up again. Horatio presses a kiss to Archie’s brow, and he lies back and waits until he can wait no more. Even though he now _knows_ , he isn’t sure how the mechanics of the act are supposed to work, and he wants to learn. The mere thought of sharing this with Archie is breathtaking, and he opens his mouth, sucking in lungfuls of air in gasps that become more and more shallow the more he thinks of it. Archie lies on his side, his face against Horatio’s collarbone, his fingertips tapping out the rhythm of heathen drums on Horatio’s ribcage. It is less than an embrace; it is more than an embrace.

“How,” Horatio breathes into Archie’s hair, “how does it _work_?”

Archie must have noticed Horatio’s heart fall into a mad flutter beneath his lips, for he presses an open-mouthed kiss to Horatio’s chest, and as he pulls back, he says: “I can show you,” in a voice so low and rough that, rather than hearing the words, Horatio feels them reverberate though his skin.

The blood that has not pooled to his groin has risen to his face, and he rolls over and burrows his burning cheeks in the pillow, for he doesn’t want Archie to see him like this, awkward and flushed like a child with embarrassment. But Archie isn’t watching his face at all; his body is a taut and solid weight against Horatio’s flank and his hand roams in languid strokes down Horatio’s back until it reaches his arse. Archie cups him and shifts for better access to plant a trail of kisses along Horatio’s spine. Horatio’s body turns into a gelatinous substance that melts into the mattress under the soft, wet swipes of Archie’s tongue. He is sure no human is supposed to feel like this, feel _so much_ , but then Archie scrapes his nails across the inside of his thigh, and Horatio loses himself, and his analytic mind is no more. It should be wrong, to feel another man’s hand touch him like this, but this last rational thought is obliterated when Archie’s finger slips inside. Horatio gasps and then groans, and he wants to both push down and pull back, but Archie’s other hand is wrapped around his hip, anchoring him to the here and now. Horatio can’t stop shaking and lets out a breath that is not quite a moan, and another one that is almost normal, and he feels Archie lean in. “All right there, Horatio?” the question is a warm puff of breath against Horatio’s ear, but Archie doesn’t sound concerned; there is laughter in his voice. It rouses Horatio’s spirit.

“Quite all right, thank you,” he says and manages not to pant. Much. “Is that... all?”

Archie laughs and does something that sends Horatio’s whole body a-shudder. “For now,” Archie whispers and kisses him on the nape of his neck. His hand moves slowly, gently, and Horatio’s hips follow every stroke, up and down, up and down, and he grinds his cock into the sheets with every desperate push, until the pressure _has_ to give and he groans his release into the pillow.

He _has_ melted, Horatio is sure of it. He wriggles his fingers experimentally, and it feels as though they were far, far away and only loosely connected to his body. Even his feet are trembling, as though they weren’t flesh and bone but an alien, non-solid substance. Fortunately, there is Archie, and Archie drapes an arm around him and holds him fast, his skin pleasantly cool to the touch. Horatio turns his head to look at him, and sweat-soaked hairs cling to his heated face. Archie brushes them away and kisses Horatio on the temple; in the spots where his skin touches Horatio, it warms up rapidly.

“I want to make you feel like this,” Horatio whispers before he has time to think, and Archie doesn’t push him away.

It is almost... it is even better, Horatio thinks dizzily with Archie curled up in his arms. Archie’s back is coated with a sheen of sweat, and Horatio has just spent the best half an hour of his life licking that sweat off his back. Archie’s skin is so white it all but glows in the spots where the pale moonlight hits it, and so soft Horatio wants to kill every single man who had ever dared break it. He is grateful for the darkness; he doesn’t want to see the welts and scars that mar Archie’s back. There are too many, and all he can do is trace them with his lips and breathe prayers over them. With every prayer, he begs Archie’s forgiveness, for not having seen, not having been there, not sooner... Archie sighs under his ministrations, and Horatio wants to crawl over him and into him and never let go.

His head spins and his fingers tremble when his journey along Archie’s body brings him to the spot where Archie’s thighs are still pressed together. He wavers, not sure whether he should push them apart, but in the next moment, Archie raises himself on his hands, shifting and spreading his legs. “Invitation!” Horatio thinks giddily and, when Archie’s pulls one knee up, “Trust!”

There mustn’t be any pain, he mustn’t hurt Archie, and for one horrible moment, he doesn’t know how, and this isn’t a question he can possibly ask. But he isn’t Horatio Hornblower for nothing, quick-thinking in the face of imminent challenge, which is why he reaches across and dips his fingers into the oil of the lamp they hadn’t lit. He is sure he hears Archie give an appreciative murmur.

When he slides the tip of his finger inside Archie, one conscious thought, one thought only is left: “Mine.”

Archie clenches around him for one heart-stopping moment. Horatio’s breath stutters to a halt until, not quite two or three seconds later, Archie exhales deeply and his legs relax. He arches his back against Horatio, and Horatio rubs himself against the slick skin. He wants to revel in the sensation of _Archie_ , from temple to toe, but not by lying on his back, oppressing him. And so Horatio snakes his arm underneath Archie and rolls them both until they come to rest on their sides.

His hands are all but numb within minutes. It is an uncomfortable angle, the way he has to twist his wrist to keep his finger inside Archie, but he doesn’t mind. He marvels instead at the heat and pressure around his finger and he listens to Archie’s ragged breathing as they both rock slowly together. His cock slides between Archie’s thighs with every sway of their hips.

His other arm is trapped underneath Archie, his palm pressed to his ribcage, fingers splayed wide. Underneath his thumb thrums the firm beat of Archie’s heart, and his fingers tease the fine hairs on Archie’s chest. Horatio’s own chest is smooth like a boy’s, and he has always assumed a man’s chest hair would be coarse and rough. Archie’s isn’t; it’s soft and sticky with sweat and it tickles Horatio’s fingertips. Archie sighs and thread the fingers of his hand through Horatio’s.

He is touching himself. Horatio can’t see it, but he hears the wet slide of flesh on flesh, he smells Archie’s arousal, and he licks the side of Archie’s neck, from shoulder to jaw, because he is sure if he licks him enough the taste will stay with him always. The mixture of sweat and arousal makes for a powerful tang that coats Horatio’s tongue and goes straight to his head, like port. Without a warning, Archie throws his head back, moans and his arse slams hard against Horatio’s hand and belly. Horatio yelps at that unexpected assault and his cock, overheated from friction, empties itself between Archie’s legs.

He is barely aware of Archie rolling back against him, muttering something incomprehensible, their legs, hands and hair entangled. Already, Horatio is drifting off to sleep, and on the fringes of consciousness, he mutters something too: “Mine.”

When he wakes up again, Archie is sprawled across him, heavier in his sleep than he has any right to. He is holding a fistful of Horatio’s hair, and Horatio is holding his wrist. His skin is sticky and itches in the places where the hairs of Archie’s legs and chest cling to it. Horatio never knew so much happiness existed. His chest swells with joy, and Archie shifts atop of him and slides off. He opens his eyes and frowns at the sight of Horatio’s face which, Horatio must admit, must look very foolish indeed, with swollen lips and a besotted grin.

“Can we do this again?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think.

“It’s a sin. And a crime,” Archie says in an odd tone of voice, and there’s a challenge in that steady gaze of his. Horatio’s heart thumps in his throat and to mask it, he grabs Archie by the hair and kisses him, greedy and open-mouthed.

“No,” he says when they pull apart. “It can’t be. They got it wrong.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of emotional continuity, I assume that the last scene in _Frogs and Lobsters_ (the boys standing on top of the mast) happens not on their voyage from Muzillac back to England, but rather when they set off for the next one. The morning after, if you will.
> 
> Followed by [Fearless](http://archiveofourown.org/works/321135)


End file.
